For Queen and Country
by Catching Tomorrow
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has always found the Tudors to be an interesting dynasty, but he is at a loss to explain why its newest Queen, Elizabeth, fascinates him so.
1. Prologue

**A little while ago I was reading about the Tudors, and I remembered the fact that Elizabeth said she was married to her country. And somehow, reading it again with the knowledge of Hetalia made some very strange, fangirlish ideas take shape in my head. I had a look and, lo and behold, I'm not the only one who now madly ships EnglandXElizabethI.**

**And so I wrote them a story.**

**I feel duty-bound to warn you that I haven't actually finished writing this entire thing in advance so you might possibly have to put up with short periods of 'arlskglsdgdls I can't write anything!' halfway through. I'll try my best not to give into that, though.**

**Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, but you knew that.**

**Yes, my Elizabethan fanfiction starts in 1973 and includes my unshakable AmericaXSouthVietnam headcanon. Deal with it. ^_^**

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**7th May 1973**

"America? Oh my God, where the bloody _hell _have you been?"

The United States of America stood on the doorstep of the United Kingdom household and stared silently up at his former mentor. His clothes were dirty and crumpled, as though he hadn't changed them in days. He barely acknowledged the pouring rain as it drenched his dishevelled hair, ran down his unshaven face and pooled on his slumped shoulders, soaking his shirt. Nantucket drooped so low it was barely recognisable. The smell of stale sweat and alcohol hung around him like an aura of uncleanliness and his usual confidence was gone as his blank, helpless eyes stared through his limp fringe in a way that made England's spine crawl. He had seen America at his best and at his worst, but he had never once seen him like this.

"I don't know..." he said slowly, as though just searching for words that made sense was an effort. "Places."

"Everyone's been sick with worry! You can't just disappear off like that without telling anyone where you're going! Last we heard, you just walked out on your President and no-one could get in contact with you! It's been a week! You've caused an international emergency, did you know that? The CIA are out looking for you and everything! And now you just turn up on my doorstep... Good God, man, you can't just do that! What were you _thinking_?"

America withstood England's tirade with the same blank, emotionless stare. It was as though something deep within his brain had short-circuited and now he was running on autopilot, just drifting along without thinking or feeling anything at all. America was a good few inches taller than him, but England still felt the odd sensation of looking down at him as he took in his eyes. America had always had the most expressive eyes England had ever seen. Whether he was angry, disappointed, happy, excited or determined, his emotions were always broadcast to the world through his eyes so clearly it was impossible to mistake what he was feeling. He had never seen his eyes this flat before. Completely, utterly, soul-shatteringly flat, as though his world had burned away and now there was nothing left for him to feel.

England sighed and stepped aside. "Come in."

It is a well-known fact in the United Kingdom that tea cures everything, and if not cure, it still works at least as well as a general anaesthetic. Whether you've had a bad day, a messy break-up or a broken leg, tea is always the best thing for you. Which was why, after giving America a clean, dry shirt and pointing him towards the shower, England wasted no time in filling the kettle with water and setting it to boil.

"He doesnae look too good," said Scotland, coming into the kitchen with an uncharacteristically concerned expression. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," said England. "Listen, can you call the Prime Minister for me? Tell him we've found America."

"Aye," Scotland said without hesitation. Although he'd never admit it, England was thankful that even his brother had grasped the seriousness of the situation and had dispensed with his usual habit of coming up with every excuse under the sun to avoid doing whatever he asked him to do.

"Oh, and one more thing." Scotland turned to listen, halfway out of the kitchen door. "After you're done, can you please make sure Wales and Northern Ireland don't come down here? I don't think he needs an audience."

Scotland nodded and left. England leant against the counter and closed his eyes, listening as the kettle hummed and the water splashed and hissed itself to boiling point. It was a calming sound. The past week had been a flurry of phone calls and emergency meetings, of heightened security and terrified politicians, of kidnap worries and conspiracy theories. It wasn't every day that the USA suddenly just disappeared and every nation in the world had heard about it. Everyone had been on high alert, their police scouring city streets, all searching for a trace of the American. And now he just appeared on their doorstep without even calling first, looking like he'd been spending his free week rolling around in the gutter.

England took a deep breath and let the noise of the kettle soothe his nerves. He'd been so tense that week a good blow would've snapped him clean in two. At least America was alright. _Well, physically, anyway_. He clearly hadn't been kidnapped or murdered, which meant a lot less political fallout and a lot more trouble for him when he got back to the White House.

The sound of the door brought England out of his reverie. The shower had done America good; he was clean and dry now, and no longer smelt like the worst kind of lower-class pub. The new shirt fit him a little strangely, but at least it wasn't stained with God-knows-what.

"Sit down," said England, and America dropped into a kitchen chair without question. "Scotland's calling the Prime Minister, telling him we've got you. He'll pass the message through to the White House. I can't even tell you how relieved they're going to be. They take you very seriously, you know." He dropped teabags into two of the biggest mugs he could find and filled them with hot water. _Stir, press, drain, bin_. One of the teas was perfect, one had far too much milk and two sugars, just how America liked it. He brought the mugs to the table and sat down.

"I hate tea," muttered America, but he still held the mug tightly and took two long gulps.

England did the same, and felt a week's worth of tension and stress begin to melt away. "Now," he said, regarding the American over his mug, "do you want to tell me why you saw fit to disappear like that?"

America stared into his tea, his face desolately expressionless. For a moment England wasn't sure if he was going to say anything at all, but then two flat, heavy words dropped from his mouth. "She's dead."

"I'm sorry?"

"She's dead!" he said again, a little louder. "She's dead and I couldn't save her."

A suspicion was creeping up on England, the tendrils of realisation starting to grip him, but he still had to confirm it. "Who's dead?"

"South... South Vietnam."

It was just as he'd feared. England sighed deeply and took another long gulp of tea, considering what to say next. He had never been good at comforting people, especially not over things like this. America's eyes weren't emotionless any more, but the crushed, devastated expression in them was even worse.

America saved him the trouble of having to think of a suitable response. "My... my President told me. North Vietnam stormed Saigon and killed her. He was so... detached, like it was just another political development, like he didn't even care... I-I don't know what happened, I just... I just couldn't be in there any more. I just wanted to leave. I didn't know where I was going or how it was gonna help, but... I don't know, Britain. I don't remember much. I don't even really know why I'm here... I guess you always made it better when I was little. Not that you can now or anything. I just had nowhere else to go."

England listened to him talk with his tea frozen halfway to his mouth, then set it back down on the table. America's President had broken the news to him rather insensitively, and that in turn had broken America. England was no stranger to countries being born and dying - although he didn't look it, he himself was quite an old nation. That was America's problem. He was so young. He was so tall and loud and confident it was easy to forget, but he had only properly come into existence a couple of centuries ago. He had an ability to lead, to walk into a room and be so sure of himself and his strategies that he left no space for doubt, but all that hid an innocence and naïveté that was now coming back to bite him. "I see," he said, trying to keep the pity out of his voice. America needed him to be strong, like he had been when he was the one who cleaned up his bumps and scratches and chased away his nightmares. "Yes, I had heard that there was only one Vietnam now. I-"

"It's my fault!" The words burst from America like he'd been struggling to contain them for hours. "It's all my fault! If I hadn't been there, they might not've even fought each other! If I hadn't convinced her that she could fight, South Vietnam wouldn't... she wouldn't have... I told her I'd save her, Britain! What sort of hero am I if I can't even save one girl?"

England took a deep breath, letting his thoughts process themselves. He had never been good at this, but he knew what he needed to say. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't help matters, I'll admit. You may have... escalated the conflict, but listen to me, America. You did not start the Vietnam War. South Vietnam was..." he paused. 'Doomed from the start' seemed a little insensitive. "It was her time. Countries don't live forever. We live longer than regular people, but we're born and we die just like them."

"But she wasn't just any other country!" America looked away and furiously rubbed at his eyes, trying to pretend he wasn't crying. He had done the same thing since he was young enough to use the knees of England's trousers to wipe his tears away. "She was... I don't know, she was special! She didn't deserve to die! She was so kind, so... She wasn't a soldier. What was I thinking, sending her to war? She was... I..." His words petered away, and he slowly turned back to look at England with dawning horror written plainly across his face. "Oh, _shit_. Do you think... I... Britain, I think I might have loved her."

He was looking at England with such urgency, as though a prompt answer to this question could change his life, that he had to take another long, slow gulp of tea before he said, "if you're this upset about it then yes, I think you might've done."

America let out a string of curses so extensive England would've pretended to be offended by it if this were any other situation. "But love's supposed to make you happy!" He turned almost accusing eyes on England. "You always told me it was a good thing! You read me those books, don't deny it! The hero saves the girl and they live happily ever after. Not one of those things happened. Not one. So how can it be love?"

England sighed. What had he been supposed to tell the smiling, laughing little boy? That love started out great but made you want to tear your heart out by the time it was over? He had skirted the question like a particularly muddy puddle. And the storybooks hadn't even been his choice - America had demanded he read them to him over and over again because he adored the action scenes and idolised the heroes. "Love's not always happy," he said slowly, feeling his way hesitantly down this unfamiliar path of conversation. "It can be, yes. If you find someone you love and they love you back, then love can be so happy you could just forget the world and drown in it. But the thing you have to know about love is that it covers both extremes. It can make you happier than you've ever been or so sad you want to die rather than have to live with it. That's just how it works."

America thought about this for a moment. "I was happy when she was... when I was with her," he said. "She was so sweet, and so brave, and she had this way of smiling where she barely moved her lips but it just lit up her whole face..." He was caught for a moment in a memory before crashing back to reality. "And now she's dead," he croaked, and his voice cracked. "And... and you're right. You're so right."

England wasn't quite sure how it happened, but suddenly America was sobbing into his shirt and he was holding him close just like he had when he was just a fledgling colony. Only this time he couldn't mop up his cuts and bruises and sort out his problems. This problem was one America had to deal with alone, and all he could do was offer comfort and advice. Comfort and advice that, he knew, would seem so insignificant in the face of all this impenetrable sorrow they might as well not be there at all.

"It won't last forever," he said, unsure of how much good it would do but sure that he had to try. "It might seem like it will, but it won't. It'll be tough for a long time, but then you'll wake up one day and realise that you don't want to cry whenever you think of her. There's nothing you can do but just remember her, and remember why you loved her, and let her go. There will be days where you don't even want to get out of bed, days where you feel like you'll never think of anything else, and days when you think you're alright but then someone reminds you of her and you feel like breaking down all over again. But as painful as it is now, it heals. It leaves a scar, but it heals."

America was silent for a long time before speaking. "How do you know?"

"Because..." England floundered; he hadn't been expecting that question. "Because I'm older than you. I've seen more of life."

"Who was it?"

He sighed again and resigned himself to the truth. His former colony had just poured his heart out to him, and now he deserved the same in return. With a quick look at the door to make sure none of his brothers were listening, he said quietly, "Someone. Well, more than someone. One of my queens, actually."

America gaped at him. "One of your queens?"

"Yes," he admitted, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to stave off the beginnings of a killer headache. "One of my queens."

"Which one?"

England wasn't quite sure why he was asking; he doubted if America could name a single one of his monarchs. "Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth. The first one."

"Shit," said America again. "Elizabeth I? But... you... how?"

To be honest, he was starting to regret bringing up the whole topic. But America's eyes, although red and puffy, were no longer streaming and his shoulders were a little less slumped. If telling this story would take America's mind off South Vietnam, if only for a little while, then it was the least he could do.

England took the longest gulp of tea yet and, much to his surprise, emptied the mug. Leaving America waiting on the edge of his seat, he stood up, walked over to the counter and put the kettle on. Might as well make another cup of tea.

He was going to need it.


	2. A New Arrival in Court

When Arthur Kirkland first saw Elizabeth Tudor - truly, properly saw her - she was being helped from a carriage on a cold spring morning of 1555. It was too early for anyone but the servants, cooks and chambermaids to be awake, but Arthur had asked them to rouse him specially to oversee her arrival. The sun was only just beginning to cast weak tendrils of light over the horizon as he dressed himself and hurried outside, refusing offers of breakfast. She would not truly arrive until she was presented to the court, of course, but he wished to be there when her carriage drew in to greet her properly. Formalities were all well and good, but he could not let a member of his own royal family come to court without wishing her welcome.

The truth was, Arthur would not go out of his way like this for just any royal. He had always been fond of Elizabeth. He had not had much chance to get to know her - she had left court as a young girl, deprived of her title of Princess and declared illegitimate. He was honestly curious to see how she had turned out. He had not properly spoken to her since before Queen Mary imprisoned her at Woodstock over a year ago, and then only briefly. He had expected her to be like her sister - just thinking Mary's name made his blood boil these days - but he had been pleasantly surprised. Elizabeth was intelligent with a sharp wit, a finely honed sense of sarcasm and was, all in all, very good company. He had got along well with her and was sad to see her go; indeed, he had tried his best to send her gifts to keep her spirits up during her imprisonment. This would be their first reunion since she was sent away, and he was keen to have it away from the prying eyes of royalty and courtiers.

Arthur sat up straight as the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones met his ears. She was here. He watched the carriage as it drew into the courtyard, straining for a glimpse through the velvet curtains that obscured the windows. It drew to a halt and the driver leapt from his seat to open the doors and help Elizabeth out. Arthur got to his feet, ready to intercept her before servants could swarm her, and watched with some anticipation as she emerged from the carriage.

Elizabeth was almost as he remembered her. Her slender, elegantly built frame was accentuated by a travelling dress embroidered with threads of vibrant gold, the colour of which served to set off her long, strikingly red hair. She had large, deep brown eyes that surveyed the courtyard with interest, high cheekbones and a nose that was perhaps just a little too bold. Arthur remembered all of this, but somehow she was different to his memories. She was... older. More mature. Quite frankly, beautiful, and every bit the princess she was meant not to be.

"Lady Elizabeth," he smiled, striding across the couryard to where she stood. "Welcome! I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

"Pleasant enough," she said, arranging her skirts and looking around as though wondering where the usual swarms of servants were. "You're up early, Sir Kirkland."

"I wanted to welcome you to court," he admitted.

"That's very kind of you," she said, and smiled at him. "What news of Mary?"

"Her pregnancy is progressing normally thus far. If she gives birth to a healthy son, he will become heir apparent. If not..."

She finished his sentence for him. "I will."

"You will." There was a short silence. Both of them already knew this, had already had plenty of time to come to terms with it, but it was still almost unbelievable to hear it said, to feel it hanging almost tangibly in the cold morning air between them. Arthur would never say it out loud lest he was accused of treason - treason against himself, as it were, though he doubted the Queen would see the irony - but he would much prefer Elizabeth take the throne than a child too young to rule and a direct descendent of the woman who had burned so many of his people alive with not so much as a mark on her conscience. "I will call the servants," he said, breaking the period of reflection. "You must be tired. They have been spending hours readying your bedchambers for your arrival. They've been very excited; you mustn't keep them waiting."

He clapped his hands and the official welcoming party hurried out into the courtyard, perfectly turned out for the occasion. Elizabeth laughed and allowed herself to be led away. It must've been nice for her, he thought as he watched her go, to suddenly be introduced back to the luxuries of court. Woodstock had not been a prison in the traditional sense - she had had full access to fine meals and clothes and all her needs were cared for - but it was a far cry from all the hospitality the English monarchy could offer.

As the carriage was led out of the courtyard, Arthur turned and headed back towards the palace. There was much to be arranged before Elizabeth was presented to the court, and he intended to make sure everything went perfectly for her.


	3. The Heir That Never Was

Barely weeks after Elizabeth's arrival, Arthur sat by the door of Mary's bedchambers and leant his head back against the wall, closing his eyes in an attempt to soothe his pounding headache. He hadn't slept in upwards of forty-eight hours - none of them had. Only days earlier, he had been anxiously expecting the arrival of the heir to his kingdom. Only days earlier, he had been convinced that Mary I, his Queen, was about to give birth to a healthy son. But now she lay just beyond this wall, surrounded by maids and midwives who had privately told him only minutes earlier that their worst fears had been confirmed. There was no baby.

He did not honestly understand the details - such things were a woman's domain, after all - but she had been pregnant and now she was not, and that meant that there would be no heir. And the Queen was not young; her chance for a child had clearly passed.

There would be no heir.

The sound of footsteps and rustling skirts made him lift his head and open his eyes; Elizabeth was hurrying down the corridor, an expression of urgency and concern on her face. She had not slept either, and it showed in her pale skin and the shadows under her eyes. She went to open the door to Mary's bedchambers, then saw Arthur sitting alone merely feet away. She paused and looked at him with a question in her eyes. He held them for a moment - was it normal to have eyes that brown with hair that red? - then sighed and shook his head. Elizabeth's mouth opened in a tiny 'o' and her hand dropped from the doorknob to her side. For a moment Arthur was sure she would collapse - she appeared to sway on the spot and her face drained of all its remaining colour - but within seconds she had composed herself.

"Come on," she said, her voice barely trembling at all. "If this is true, then I must speak with you." The door opened and two handmaidens left Mary's bedchambers. They spared only a mournful glance for Arthur and Elizabeth before hurrying away down the corridor. Elizabeth watched them go, then added, "Alone."

Arthur climbed quickly to his feet and followed her, wondering what she could possibly want to say to him. Everything that could be said had been - Mary had no heir. Elizabeth would become queen. Surely that was all that mattered in the world at the moment. Still slightly dazed, Arthur barely noticed as she led him into an empty room and shut the door. Arthur was not a frequent visitor of this area of the Palace, but he guessed that this was the bedchamber of an attendant or handmaiden. He glanced around uncertainly, unsure if it was proper for them to be invading some poor woman's private space.

"Why are we in-"

"England." The use of his real name caused him to shut his mouth abruptly, and the conviction with which she had said it made all his questions wither away. "As your future queen, I feel I must... say certain things to you. Assurances. Promises."

He watched her, unsure of what to expect; she was staring at her feet and searching for words, but still kept her poise. She didn't know what she was doing but she was doing a good job of pretending like she did.

"I swear," she said, bringing her suddenly fiery gaze up directly to his eyes, "to serve you. I give my life to you. I swear upon the tombs of my ancestors that I will do everything in my power to lead, help and protect you and your people. Mary... I know that she was flawed, and I know that I will be flawed, but I ask you to forgive me these flaws and to know that all that I do - all that I will ever do - is for you, and for your country, and for your people."

And then, to his utter shock, she dropped to her knees in a puff of silk skirts and bowed before him, sunk low to the ground with her head bent as though praying. There she stayed, stock still, as he gaped at her. Never before had one of his own monarchs bowed to him. It had always been the other way around; he had been a subject, a trusted advisor at the best of times and an annoyance at the worst, but never more than a representative of those who served and followed. He was unused to seeing a member of his royal family bowing to him so sincerely and it made him feel a little strange, so he extended his hand to her to help her up. She raised her head and looked at it in surprise, then hesitantly took it and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

"I am glad to hear that," he said, trying his best to smile warmly at her. It was not an expression he was well practised in, but she looked so nervous he couldn't help but try. "But you really do not have to say such things, or bow to me. I will not simply judge your reign from a distance - I plan to help you. If you will allow me to, of course."

A smile broke out across her face, wide and relieved. "Of course I will. Then we will rule together?"

"We will."

"Splendid!" Her smile was even broader now, lighting up her whole face and dazzling Arthur like the sun. "That is a great relief. No-one's ever taught me... of course, no-one ever thought I'd... well, you have far more experience as a ruler than I do. I would be most glad of your help. And I do mean those things, you understand. You may not think them necessary, but I mean them. I live only to serve you."

"You-"

"I will be moving to Hatfield House to live until it is my time to succeed," she continued, caught up in her own monologue. "It is nice there, very green. I like it. You must come and visit sometime. We should stay in contact - I've already started working on plans for my government and I would be most pleased if you would review them."

"Of course I will," he said, a little dizzied by her words combined with recent events and his severe lack of sleep.

"Excellent. I must go and make the necessary arrangements." She opened the door to leave, then stopped with only one foot in the corridor. "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. Your support really does mean... well, it means everything."

Unsure what to say, he settled for a smile and a little bow. She laughed and disappeared off down the corridor, leaving him with only the fading sound of her footsteps and the lingering smell of her perfume.

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**Please leave a review and tell me what you think so far! I know they're short at the moment, but this is just the beginning. They'll get longer, I promise.**


	4. The Crowning of a Queen

The coronation of Elizabeth Tudor was a spectacle worthy of the queen she would become.

Arthur did not ride with her through the streets of London in her coronation procession, though she offered him a place in the parade many times. He preferred to watch from the crowds, to see her from the perspective of the people she would govern. They were excited, pushing and shoving to catch a glimpse of their new Queen. They wanted to love her. All Elizabeth had to do was rise to the occasion and confirm their beliefs that she was the one who would lead them to glory.

Elizabeth, he noted with satisfaction, outdid herself. It was almost customary for rulers to stare fixedly ahead, straight-backed and regal, as though they were on a level above the people clamouring to see them. After all, they reasoned, did the people not want a ruler they could be sure was greater than them? But Elizabeth broke this unspoken tradition wholeheartedly. She bent down from her carriage to exchange words with the Londoners, accepting gifts and smiling like she'd known each one of them for years. Arthur watched, the crowd buffeting him from all sides, and couldn't help but smile as well.

She hadn't been so confident in the days leading up to this. She had spent them in the royal lodgings at the Tower of London, all the better to prepare her coronation procession and ceremony. She had put up a perfect front, of course, holding her head high and her face straight, but Arthur could see chinks in her armour.

"You are scared," he said, when they were alone in the royal lodgings after the procession had finished. "Don't be. It will all run smoothly, I will make sure of it."

"I am not scared," she snapped. He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to... I'm just a bit on edge." She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it out of the clips that held it atop her head, and it fell around her face in red curls. "I feel like I am walking a tightrope, Arthur. Like there's only one safe way forwards and a single wrong step will kill me. And this place is not helping," she added, glaring around at the stone walls surrounding them.

Unsure quite what to do, Arthur settled for patting her arm awkwardly. He had never been good at comforting people, but Elizabeth looked so worried and worn out that he knew he had to try. He knew why this place was bothering her: the Tower of London had, many years ago, been the place of execution of her mother, Anne Boleyn, along with many people she had known and been close to. As much as they tried to make the royal lodgings feel opulent and comfortable, there was a stench of death about the place that could never be erased.

"I will be here," he said. "I have seen many monarchs before you walk that tightrope. I could teach you to do handstands on it, if you will let me."

But, he thought, remembering her conduct at the procession, she would not need much of that. She could already do handstands on her own.

The coronation took place the next day, inside a lavishly decorated Westminster Abbey. Arthur's seat was not a particularly good one, neither close to the front nor presenting a particularly good view, but by craning his neck he could just see Elizabeth kneeling on the stage in robes of a gold that shimmered like metal. He tried to gauge her confidence, but the expression on her face was set and she showed no signs of nervousness. He had to admire her for that.

The ceremony itself was not long, which Arthur was grateful for. He had never had much patience for drawn-out formalities. The sermon part of the ceremony had already passed without issue, and Elizabeth now waited, stock-still, as the anointing was performed. When it was over, she rose to her feet and slowly, regally, stepped towards the throne and sank into it.

She looked right on it, Arthur found himself thinking. Like it had been made specially for her. Some of his previous monarchs had looked uncomfortable, out of place, and it had always been them who had gone on to make the most disappointing rulers. Elizabeth, however, looked as though she had been born to sit on it, and perhaps it was that realisation that lifted a weight from his shoulders.

She accepted the sword, armils, mantle, ring and sceptre and held them, her expression still determinedly blank. Arthur had seen countless coronations and knew what came next.

He hadn't realised he was holding his breath until it escaped from him all in a rush as the crown was settled on Elizabeth's head. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, as though amazed that it had actually happened, and then stared straight at him. She picked him out of the crowd as effortlessly as though a beacon was announcing his location to the whole room, she caught his eye and she smiled.

Triumphant fanfare and the screaming applause from the crowds outside echoed through the stone halls of Westminster Abbey as they smiled at each other, almost giddy with hope and excitement.

Elizabeth was Queen of England, and England loved her wholly and truly.


	5. The Annoyance of Robert Dudley

**Argh, sorry for the late update, guys... *hangs head in shame*. Teachers don't take fanfiction writing as an acceptable excuse for not doing homework, for some reason, so you know what that means.**

**On an entirely unrelated note, I just realised that chapters one and three are exactly the same length. They're both precisely 900 words. I KNOW RIGHT? O.o (*gets too excited about arbitrary numbers*)**

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It was a warm spring morning some three months after the coronation, and Arthur and Elizabeth were walking alone in the palace gardens. Breakfast had finished some thirty minutes ago and the courtiers were out in full strength, but the grounds were so large it was altogether possible to lose oneself among the bushes, trees and perfectly tended flowerbeds. The sun, although still not having risen to its full strength, cast rays of light across the grass and the pale blue sky was relatively cloudless. Perhaps summer would come early this year, mused Arthur. They would have to schedule more tournaments and outdoor parties to make the most of the good weather.

"Are you listening to me?" asked Elizabeth, snapping him out of mentally planning an entire season's worth of outdoor events.

"Of course," he said, trying to look offended. "Are you questioning my attentiveness to my own queen, Your Highness?"

"You are to address me as Elizabeth, as you well know," she sniffed. He only called her 'Your Highness' when he was being sarcastic and it had not taken her long to realise it. "As I was _saying_, I think that I will continue using the crucifix as a religious symbol. It is awfully Catholic, but perhaps keeping a few vestiges of the religion will appease its practitioners."

"We don't have to appease anyone," he said. "We do not need friends. We don't have to pander to the sensibilities of-"

"This country is Protestant, Arthur, but that does not mean it cannot be pragmatic," she sighed, as though explaining something very simple to someone very slow. She must have seen the indignant face he pulled, because she snapped, "Alright then, if Spain and France send their invading armies against us then I shall send you out to fight them alone, how about that? God knows I could use a laugh."

He glanced sideways at her. "Queenly duties less humorous than you bargained for, are they?"

"Well, I cannot say this court could not be improved with the presence of a jester or two," she said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "I was led to believe courts had jesters."

"Jesters are not so great as people say," grinned Arthur. "There are much higher forms of entertainment than juggling and acrobatics."

"Oh? Such as?"

There was a pause as she waited for an answer, then, quick as a flash, he reached out and pulled her headdress down over her eyes before she could do more than gasp in surprise. He doubled over, laughing fit to burst, as she struggled to pull it back onto her head and spluttered curses entirely unbecoming of a queen. "You..." she started, her face turning almost as bright a red as her hair. "You..." But, apparently unable to find words, she settled instead for pouncing on him and pulling his own hat down to cover his face. Now it was her turn to laugh - it was both wild and uproarious yet strangely melodious, Arthur noted absently - as he cursed and tore the hat from his eyes. For a moment they were silent, staring at each other, teetering on the fulcrum that separated argument from mirth, before tipping over and laughing until their ribs felt fit to burst. She looked so much more beautiful when she let her guard down like this. Smiling and laughing with her red curls coming out of their pins and her headdress on at an angle, she somehow looked better than she did when her handmaidens had worked for hours on her appearance.

"Stability," gasped Elizabeth, attempting to compose herself and only half succeeding. "I was going to say... we need... stability."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Do we not have stability?"

"No, we do not. Not yet. We are still in a precarious position. My government is still falling into place, we have the question of religion, of course, and then there is the matter of my marriage."

"Oh," he said, not quite sure why this had taken him so off guard. Of course she had to marry. "Yes. Marriage. But... now? Why so soon?"

"Not necessarily soon," she said flippantly, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture, "but it must be considered. I must choose the right person. Surely you understand how important this is."

He did. Monarchs could generally marry whosoever they pleased - as Henry VIII had taken so much pleasure in demonstrating - but Elizabeth and, for that matter, Mary, were women. Queens, and queens regnant at that. Marrying could mean loss of political power, as Mary had proven when she played into the hands of Spain's King. Elizabeth had learnt from her sister's mistakes, but that, if anything, made choosing a potential husband even more difficult. But if she chose to forgo the matter completely, she would produce no legitimate heirs, and that would jeopardise her precious stability. Elizabeth's marital status was just as precariously placed as her country.

"Do you have anyone in mind?" asked Arthur.

"There are a few people overseas vying for my hand," she shrugged. "But I think I will not marry a foreigner. Too much potential for political problems. I shall try to marry within England if it proves at all possible."

"Well?"

She sighed. "There is someone. He would do nicely, I think. He is-"

They turned a corner and found themselves in front of the palace stables. Tall, clean and tended to by dozens of servants, the horses lucky enough to have the jobs of pulling royal carriages or serving as leisure mounts lived more opulently than most people in the country. The smell of hay and fresh leather was carried towards them on the wind along with the contented noises of horses well fed and exercised for the morning. Before Elizabeth could finish her sentence, they found themselves face to face with Lord Robert Dudley.

He sank into a low bow. "Your Highness."

"Robert," smiled Elizabeth. She extended her hand and he kissed it before rising, beaming broadly at both of them.

"And Sir Kirkland, a pleasure!"

"You'll forgive me, Lord Dudley, if I do not ask you to kiss me," deadpanned Arthur. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but something about the tall, smiling man in front of them irked him. He had never minded Dudley much before - perhaps not liked, but then there were not a lot of people that Arthur truly liked - but now there was something pinching at him just below the surface. Something that hadn't been there before.

"Droll as ever, I see," he said, as though he found Arthur's rudeness nothing short of amusing. "And how does this morning find the two of you?"

"Very well indeed," said Elizabeth. "Out for an early morning ride?"

"No, not today. I was just overseeing the care of the horses. Pray tell, Elizabeth, when was the last time you went riding?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Not for far too long. I have been most busy."

"Say no more," laughed Dudley. "I can merely imagine. But perhaps you would bless me with your company on a ride through the grounds this coming afternoon? That is, of course, if matters do not call you elsewhere." His eyes never left Elizabeth's, and the offer was not extended to Arthur.

"I would enjoy that very much." She smiled coyly, then said, "Don't you have work to be attending to? I would hate to keep you with this mindless chatter."

"Mindless chatter with you is always the utmost pleasure," he grinned, bowing again. "But alas, you are right, as always. I shall leave you in peace. Until this afternoon!"

Arthur had never been happier to see anyone leave. As he and Elizabeth continued to walk the gardens, her talk of government and religion and foreign affairs drifting through his head without finding purchase, he wondered how he had ever tolerated the man. He was too tall, he smiled too much and he had a ridiculous little beard that ought to be taken to with scissors. Arthur found himself wishing he had the authority to order people sent to the Tower of London.

Elizabeth chatted on, unaware of his inattentiveness this time, as he made himself a silent note that Lord Robert Dudley was clearly not to be trusted.

He wondered how he had not realised it before.

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**Lord Robert Dudley was Elizabeth's childhood friend and, early in her reign, the chief contender for her hand in marriage. However, he was already married to Amy Robsart, so he couldn't marry the Queen until something was done about that. Amy was suffering from a 'malady in her left breast' which people now pretty much agree was cancer, so the whole court was holding its breath to see what happened when she died. I've always felt really sorry for Amy.**

**Anyway, please leave a review if you're liking it so far!**


	6. The Testing of a Theory

**Sorry for the long wait! I've just found out that I'm definitely accepted into a year-long exchange programme in France starting in September (YAY) so I've been spending ungodly amounts of time learning French. That, and I had a moment of insecurity about this story and started rearranging all the chapters. But it's all good now. (O.O FRANCE YOU GUYS).**

* * *

Rain pelted the windows of Elizabeth's office as she and Arthur sat by her mahogany desk, her halfway through an explanation of her plans for foreign trade and him deep in thought about matters entirely unrelated to the topic of their rather one-sided conversation. It was only just past dinnertime, but dark stormclouds had covered the sun and forced them to light several candles, which flickered and cast odd shadows across the room. There was something fascinating about the way the light and shadow played with the curls of Elizabeth's red hair and the creases between her brows as she concentrated, consulting ledgers and maps as she spoke.

Marrying her off should be his primary concern. It was necessary to avoid a succession crisis, even civil war. And Robert Dudley was perfect. He and Elizabeth had been close friends for years. Looking past the many ways in which he found the man insufferable, Arthur had to grudgingly admit that he would make a good husband for her. At the very least, he wasn't Spanish like Mary's husband. By marrying him, Elizabeth would keep the royal bloodline in England and avoid having her power seized by a foreign king, a mistake her late sister had been to emotional to see. Clearly this marriage was the best thing to do. But marrying Dudley... _Dudley_, of all people...

Elizabeth stabbed at the map with her index finger, punctuating an argument she did not seem to notice he had not heard, and turned to him questioningly. "How would you suggest we deal with the trade situation with Russia? Do you think this is the best way forward?"

Arthur blinked. She was waiting for an answer. He had been somewhat prone to distractions while she spoke to him of late, and admitting that it had happened again would only vex her further. The thought was not unpleasant. He took guilty pleasure from watching her shout, rant and argue, from seeing the fire ignite in her brown eyes, hearing the passion in her voice.

But perhaps now was not the time. There were more important issues to discuss. He opened his mouth to assure her that he probably agreed with whatever she'd just said, but, to his surprise, the words that tumbled out were, "Do you really plan to marry Dudley?"

She gave him a confused look. "We were discussing Russia."

"I know. I just... do you?" This seemed very important all of a sudden. Russia could wait. Dudley was in the same building as them, probably only rooms away, and what she intended for him was as urgent to Arthur as if the wedding was planned for that evening.

"Yes," she said haughtily. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"But why? What do you see in him?"

"What don't you see in him?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You really do seem to dislike him. What has he done to wrong you?"

"He..." Arthur tried to find words, failed and tried again. "He's just..." The truth was, he didn't know what it was about Dudley that he hated so. "I just have a bad feeling about him. A gut instinct, if you will. You shouldn't allow him to get too close to you."

"He has been close to me since my childhood, Arthur. He is a good friend. Are you sure that your instincts are not steering you wrong?"

"I am sure," he said, a little too quickly. Elizabeth gave him a strange look, and he added, "I am far more experienced than you in these matters, you said it yourself. You wanted my advice, here it is. Don't trust him."

She regarded him through those deep, dark eyes - they really were dizzyingly brown - and pursed her lips as though he was a particularly difficult piece of arithmetic that she was trying to solve. He felt his legs weaken under her gaze and tried to nonchalantly place a hand on the desk to steady himself. "And what reasoning do you have for that?"

"What do you-"

She rose to her feet, took a step towards him and slowly, hesitantly, placed a hand on his chest, right above his heart. He willed it to stop beating so fast, but her sheer closeness threatened to disrupt his concentration. She was so close he could smell her perfume, so close he could just bend down and kiss her. The image swum to the forefront of his mind and stayed there for only a few seconds before he shook it away in horror. _For God's sake, Arthur, she's the bloody Queen! Get ahold of yourself!_

But he did not have time to get ahold of himself. Elizabeth slowly, hesitantly, as though testing a theory, leant closer to him, standing on her tiptoes. Arthur tried and failed to control his breathing. She was waiting for him to draw away, he was sure of it, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. She was so beautiful from up close, and her eyes - God, those eyes - were nothing short of hypnotic. He stood frozen as Elizabeth closed the distance between them and gently pressed her lips to his.

It lasted only a second; she withdrew and looked at him quizzically, as though waiting to judge his reaction. He exhaled - he had not even realised he was holding his breath - and tried to organise the thoughts racing through his head, running in circles and bumping into each other in a chaotic mass that simply refused to resolve itself into something that made sense. Half-formed sentences tangled around insubstantial notions, each vague whim blurred beyond comprehension. Finding a sensible response to the situation was downright impossible.

So he gave up and simply kissed her again.

When they broke apart, all Arthur could manage was a breathless, "What?"

"I believe I may have solved the mystery of your hatred for Robert," she said, the tiniest hint of smugness playing about her lips.

Whether it was that smugness, his shock at what had just occurred, the sheer absurdity of the situation or somewhere in between he did not know, but something caused a sudden flare of defensive, angry panic to rise up inside him. "You Boleyn girls!" he shouted, jerking backwards as though he'd only just realised how close she was. "How do you do it?"

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in question, seemingly unperturbed by his outburst. "I am not a Boleyn."

"You may carry your father's name - and his stubbornness to boot, may I add - but your mother's blood runs thickly within you whether you choose to deny it or not!" He paced the room in frustration, searching angrily for words, but managed only another growl of, "You Boleyn girls…"

She leant back against her desk, watching him with infuriating amusement. "What of us?"

"I don't know!" he shouted. "I don't know what it is, but there's something about you! Every time you want something, the entire country bends over backwards to give it to you. The world turns itself inside out to cater to your every whim!"

"You have never resisted me," she said mildly. "I have forced you into nothing."

"Not consciously! Your mother-"

"Was executed by my father when I was but a child."

"Before that! I was in court when she arrived from France, you know. She was presented to the King in her silks and her jewels and I saw her eyes lock on him, and from that moment on I knew of her ambitions. Burn Katherine and her wedding vows, burn the religion and culture of an entire country, for another Boleyn girl has decided she wants what she can't have! Within years, the King had created an entirely new religion, made an enemy of the Pope, branded me a heretic in the eyes of Europe, got himself excommunicated, divorced Katherine and made your mother his Queen. And another Boleyn girl got her way. I pray you, Elizabeth, try to tell me that I am wrong to view your whims with some trepidation!"

"I assure you, I have no intention of-"

"Oh, do you now? You have plenty of intentions and you know it." He sighed, rubbing his forehead and trying to think of the right words with which to phrase his point. "You don't know what you do to this country, Elizabeth. You don't know what you do to _me_. All I ask is that you recognise that and not treat it lightly."

She observed him almost curiously for a moment, then sat back down at her desk in a swish of silk skirts, picked up her quill and dipped it idly into the inkwell. "I don't know what you're talking about, Arthur."

He banged his fists down on her desk and leant across as though to shout something else, but found no words and leant back with a shake of his head and an, "Oh, you're awful."

The quill paused, dripping ink onto the parchment on her deks. "Then why did you kiss me?"

He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, and said with the utmost sincerity, "Because I love you so much it hurts. I don't know whether it's just the fact that you're so popular with the public, perhaps that's influencing... I've never dealt with anything like this before. I don't know how it works. All I can say is that when the King changed the world for your mother I thought him a childish fool, letting her twist him around her little finger like she did. I couldn't understand how he could love someone so passionately, so completely, that the world seemed less important than the chance to be with her. But now… I don't know how you managed it, but you have twisted me around your finger so tightly I am fairly in knots. If you want something, I will bend over backwards to give it to you. I will turn the world inside out to cater to your every whim. If you asked it of me, I would do everything Henry did for Anne and more to please you."

A slight smile tweaked at her lips. She put down the quill and pushed back her chair, coming around her desk to stand in front of him and play idly with his collar. "I don't believe that will be necessary."

He reached out to cup her jaw, bringing her face up to his. "That's a relief. Because if it ever was, I don't believe I would ever have the willpower to refuse you."

"I shall have to keep that in mind," she said. Then she smiled sweetly, turned away from him and picked up her quill again, pointing it at him like a rapier. "How about you fail to refuse me in helping to organise these trade policies with Russia? We still have a country to run, Arthur."

And, as he allowed himself to be dragged, still a little dizzy, into a discussion about how best to negotiate with Tsar Ivan IV, he could not help but feel an odd sense of exhilaration. He had never done anything like this before, never _dreamt _of it. But now, though he knew it to be stupid and reckless and utterly insane, he had to admit to himself that he had not felt this giddily, undeniably _happy_ in a very, very long time.


	7. A Sunset on the Thames

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the national personification of Spain, mirrored his country in almost every way. He was sunny and warm for the vast majority of the time with a laid-back, easy manner that had a way of infecting even the most serious of his companions. From the moment you met Antonio, he was your best friend. This, perhaps, was why Arthur marvelled at his talent for writing such wonderfully passive-aggressive letters.

Really, though, it _was _marvellous. Perhaps it was the casual, friendly language juxtaposed against the subtle implications that he was an incorrigible heretic destined for hellfire that raised his hackles so, or perhaps it was the multiple nostalgic references to Mary Tudor, whom Antonio had been rather fond of, not least because she gave herself willingly over to be manipulated by him and his King.

Arthur read the letter with the slightest quirk of a sarcastic smile. He had finished scanning the final lines and placed it on the desk in front of him, his mind already working furiously on composing a suitably cutting response, when the door to his office flew open and Elizabeth hurried inside, pursued by one of her handmaidens.

"Your Highness, Lord Dudley sends word that the tournament decorations are-"

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently. "You tell Dudley he can seek me out himself instead of sending messengers chasing me all over the palace. Go!" She shooed the girl out of the office and shut the door, then closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

"You shouldn't take so much of the responsibility for this ball's organisation upon yourself," he observed, watching her as she composed herself. "You have servants for this. I'm sure they'd be more than happy to arrange everything for you."

"No," she said. "No, I enjoy it. It is perfectly pointless and shallow, and I have precious little pointless, shallow things to worry about these days. Sometimes I feel as though trade and diplomacy and internal affairs are all I think about now."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, which was not a feat to be easily ignored. "_All _you think about?"

She seemed to soften slightly. Her tight-lipped, serious expression broke into a smile that seemed to travel through his entire body like a warm drink on a cold day, relaxing each of his muscles one by one, stretching from the vertebrae of his spine to the very tips of his fingers. "Perhaps not _all _I think about. But more than is entirely healthy, I'm sure. But Arthur," she said, returning at once to her businesslike manner, "I need to ask you something."

He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together on his lap. "And that would be...?"

"Do you know anyone who can ship fifty sheep in from Wales in time for the ball? It's in four days' time, but if the cooks are to have adequate time to slaughter and prepare them then we shall have to say three."

Arthur blinked at her. "From Wales?"

"I have been told that the best sheep are reared there." She folded her arms, waiting. "Well? Do you?"

He sighed deeply and rested his elbows on his desk, massaging his temples. He could feel a headache coming on. "Haven't you left this a bit late? How are we supposed to get fifty sheep from Wales to London in three days?"

"They can travel by river," she explained, as though this were quite obvious. "Barges are fast, are they not?"

"Elizabeth, rivers are not magical. We would need to send a messenger, allow time for the sheep to be selected and herded onto barges and then more time again for them to travel all the way back here. And the Thames does not even flow to Wales. They would need to undertake significant parts of the journey on foot. There's no way anyone could do that in three days, especially not with fifty sheep to herd."

Her face fell. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Oh. I thought... I had been led to believe..." She sighed deeply and collapsed onto a chair next to his desk in a cloud of silk skirts. "I did not know. I have never been on a boat before."

It took Arthur a moment or two to comprehend quite what she had said. "Excuse me?"

"I've never been on a boat before," she repeated. "I've travelled, of course, but always by horse and carriage, never by barge."

Now it was his turn to take a few long, deep breaths. This was an unacceptable situation. Absolutely unacceptable. And like any unacceptable situation he found himself in, he was going to remedy it. "Go and change out of that dress."

She stared at him, affronted. "Go and what?"

"Put some peasant clothes on. We're leaving the palace and I don't much fancy being swarmed by admirers, do you?"

An hour later, they were walking briskly through the streets of London. The day had not been unpleasant, but it was late afternoon and the sun's warmth was quickly fading. The city was filled with its usual noise and bustle, if a little muted as the day's energy leaked slowly towards the horizon along with the light. Sunset had not properly begun yet, but the streets were not half so busy as they were at morning and midday and the various shops and stalls throughout the city were beginning to ready themselves for closure. It was not the perfect time for exploration, but it suited Arthur perfectly well.

They had passed the front gates of Hampton Court mostly unmolested. The guards had raised a fuss, but then they always did. They could make as much trouble as they pleased for Arthur alone, but they never dared to think they could keep Elizabeth anywhere she did not want to be whether it was safer for her or not. While her reign was not yet scarred by the disciplinary methods that made her immediate predecessors infamous, no-one was willing to take the slightest chance with the newest Tudor on the throne.

It took them only a few minutes to reach the Thames. The water lapped lazily at the stone banks, reflecting the grey-blue sky, smooth for want of wind. Elizabeth wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders and gave a deliberately pronounced shiver as the cold air from the river's surface reached them. "Get on with it, then," she snapped. "Whatever you intend to do, do it quickly."

"Whatever you say, Your Highness," he replied sarcastically, scanning the stone riverbank. It was quite remarkable how royal she still managed to look, despite being clad in nothing but a plain woollen dress and shawl. It had not been easy to find, either; the Queen's wardrobe did not traditionally contain commoners' clothes. She had had to repurpose a winter nightshift for this outing and was not happy about it.

Arthur saw it. A boat moored to the riverbank not far away. It was a small wooden affair with two oars and space enough for two people. He took Elizabeth's hand and led her towards it, taking stock of the boat's owner. He was an old man, tough-looking and grizzled, sitting by the bank and painstakingly checking the rope mooring the boat, and he looked up as they approached.

"Aye? What do ye want?"

Elizabeth, unused to being spoken to like this, swelled beside him; Arthur spoke quickly, falling back to a working class Londoner accent in an attempt to put the man at his ease. "We'd like to borrow your boat, sir."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"For sailing."

"You shock me," he deadpanned. "Why should I lend you my boat? She's my livelihood, this one. More'n my life's worth to lose her."

Arthur groaned inwardly. This man was not making it easy. He would've bribed him, but he hadn't expected to need money and had left everything behind at the palace. "Please, sir."

"No." The man turned away, ignoring them.

Arthur sighed and changed his accent again, this time making it as educated, aristocratic and authoritative as he could manage. "Sir, it really would be in your best interest to stand aside. We are on royal business."

Outrage was burning in his voice as he threw the rope down and spun back to them, fists balled. "On royal business, are ye? Need my rickety little boat for _affairs o' state_ or some shit? Who do ye think ye are, the bloody Queen of England?"

This time it was Elizabeth who spoke. She seemed to grow taller, looking down on him despite being a good foot shorter. Her eyes seemed brighter, her hair a deeper, more brilliant red, and her face bore a more dangerous, regal expression than Arthur had ever seen on it before. It almost frightened him, but he was nothing compared to the old man. Confusion flickered across his face, then disbelief, and Arthur wondered if he had been present at her coronation parade mere months previously. His suspicions were confirmed as recognition exploded across his expression like gunpowder. "No," she said imperiously, "but _I_ am."

Less than five minutes later, Arthur and Elizabeth were sitting in the little fishing boat and bobbing gently in the middle of the Thames. He was beginning to wish he'd thought of a way of commandeering a more impressive vessel; this boat, although sturdy and well-made for its humble purpose, was hardly fit for someone of her status. But, despite Arthur's misgivings, she seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly.

"It feels awfully odd," she said, rocking backwards and forwards with the gentle ripples on the surface of the water. "Not at all like solid ground. Does it not make you sick after a while?"

"If you aren't used to it. Some new sailors can get quite ill on their first voyage. But it's like riding a horse; once you're used to it, the old aches and pains cease to bother you."

"And how many times have you been on a boat?" she asked.

He gave this some thought. "I don't know. Many times. I spent a great deal of time at sea while Mary was on the throne, and I saw your father scarcely more in the later years of his reign."

"Where did you go?"

Arthur smiled. He greatly enjoyed narrating his maritime exploits, but he suspected not nearly so many people enjoyed listening to him. "Far and wide, Elizabeth. Down past the Spanish coast and through the Mediterannean, all the way to Alexandria and Damascus. I have navigated Africa and continued on to the mysterious lands of the Orient. I have sailed to the Caribbean and the New World, and-"

Elizabeth was leaning her elbows on the side of the boat and staring at the horizon, her eyes glazed in a way that told him she was no longer listening. He fully intended to press the point - she had asked him, after all - but then followed her eyes and decided to leave it for later. The sun had just touched the waterline and dipped below, casting the pale sky in shades of gold finer than the Crown Jewels and red almost as bright as the hair it was silhouetting. The water reflected the colours like a mirror, creating a near-perfect symmetry framed by the shadowy city. The light played with her eyelashes and the curls of her hair and reflected in her brown eyes, as wide and delighted as a child's.

"I do like this sailing business," she said, turning back to him with a grin almost giddy with innocent joy. "I shall have to try it more often. I cannot go exploring like you, of course, but perhaps I can travel by barge when I need to move palace?"

"That sounds like a fine idea." It was strange how he could exist for over a thousand years, see countless wonders and meet countless people, and yet nothing more than a sunset and a smile could make him happier than he could comprehend.

"But you cannot go off on any more expeditions for a long time. Swear it to me."

"Why?"

"Because I do not want you to leave," she said simply, as though this was obvious. "We rule together, Queen and country. I cannot imagine the palace without you. I do not want to imagine the palace without you. If you left... if you went sailing off to some far corner of the world... I would miss you very much."

She had said all this with an expression of such forced regality that Arthur could not help but laugh. He leant forwards and kissed her soundly. "I won't leave," he said, once they had drawn apart. "I have far more reason to stay. And I believe I would miss you very much too, Elizabeth. Sailing is a lonely affair."

"You must promise me," she said urgently, grasping his hand as though worried he was about to take the fishing boat and row off into the sunset for good.

"I promise you," he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, her face broke into another smile infinintely more dazzling than the sunset behind her. He was still somewhat dazed as she kissed him again, pouring out her relief and happiness and gratitude. He buried his hands in her hair and tried to show with actions what he would never be eloquent enough to say with words, that he had no intention of leaving and would always be there, always, he would never dream of leaving her alone. There were a hundred unspoken promises in that one kiss, a great deal of hope and perhaps a tiny bit of uncertainty, but mostly, it was love. All-encompassing, blazing, overwhelming love, burning as brightly as the sun that was now sinking ever deeper below the horizon.


	8. Of Feasts and Dancing

Oh my gosh, everyone, look! A new chapter!

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The day of Elizabeth's ball came with much excitement from all members of court. Servants rushed from room to room decorating and preparing, cooks earned their keep in the kitchens with free reign to create the most audacious dishes they could dream of (provided, of course, that they did not involve Welsh sheep) and courtiers spent hours in their chambers, their attention turned to making themselves as beautiful as possible for the coming evening. Even Arthur was in an unusually good mood, though he would be loathe to show it. The life of a courtier or minor royal was an opulent one, if prone to dullness, and dances were far from uncommon, but true spectacles such as this did not happen every day. If nothing else, it would be a welcome break from routine.

The evening began, of course, with a feast. Huge tables were adorned with crimson silk edged in gold with peacock feathers placed artistically between the dishes. There were five courses, each as lavishly decorated and impeccably prepared as the last. Chicken, veal, stag, hare and many other meats drenched in rich sauce, sugar-plums and pomegranate seeds, dozens of eggs seasoned with cloves and saffron, pies of all varieties and sweet pastries topped with fruit represented only a fraction of the banquet Elizabeth and her servants had planned. All French, of course, but delicious nonetheless.

"It does not miss the sheep," commented Arthur, who spent the feast seated at Elizabeth's left elbow.

She laughed and went to reply, but her attention was stolen before she could finish her mouthful. She always arranged the seating so that the people she liked the most sat within easy earshot. The further away you found yourself sitting, the less amusing the Queen found you. Arthur had never been more than one seat away.

After everyone had eaten themselves content and drunk just enough fine wine to maximise their enjoyment of what was to come, the courtiers were ushered through into the ballroom. It had been decorated even more lavishly than usual; silk-topped refreshment tables dotted the edges of the room and the crystal chandeliers had been polished and lit, casting a golden glow about the dancefloor. Court musicians were already playing a slow, stately tune on a small balcony at the other end of the room, which picked up in pace and vigour as couples began to hurry eagerly out onto the floor.

"Elizabeth," said Arthur, slightly giddy-headed and enjoying every moment, "may I have this dance?"

"Of course you may," she laughed, and allowed him to lead her out into the centre of the room.

Dancing had never been one of his strong suits, but it is simply impossible to survive life at court without getting ample practise in it whether you want to or not. While he was certainly no great natural talent, Arthur had slowly but surely gained an ear for music over the years and was easily able to conduct himself in a manner befitting a dance partner of the Queen. Elizabeth herself could have been a dancer if her occupation hadn't otherwise been decided, and indeed practised voluntarily every morning. But tonight was not the night for showing off dancing prowess. Tonight was a night simply for enjoying the music and the lights and the feel of Elizabeth in his arms.

"Are you happy?" he asked her, lifting her arm above her head as she twirled, the lights reflecting off her golden headdress and red curls pinned back above her ears.

She finished her spin and smiled up at him as they began to step in another direction, following the flow of dancers around the room. "That's a rather broad question. Happy with what?"

"With your ball, what else? Is it all you hoped it would be?"

"All and more," she sighed. "I must make it a policy to hold one of these regularly. It's marvellous for relieving stress."

"If you do not organise them, I'm sure someone will," he said. "These people live for parties. Gossip, favour and material pleasure - they care about little else."

"True," she admitted. "But such shallowness can prove a welcome break from responsibility. I do love making decisions that won't ruin the kingdom if I find I have miscalculated."

"I would never let you ruin the kingdom," he laughed. "There have been far worse rulers than you and I am still intact, am I not?"

"You understate yourself, Sir Kirkland!"

"Well, what would you have me say?"

"You are a great kingdom and a fine man. I count myself lucky to have you by my side."

"And I you, Elizabeth. I would be nothing without my beautiful Queen."

Before she could reply, the last note of the song rang out through the ballroom and the couples separated, smiling broadly and applauding the musicians. A voice sounded behind them and Arthur turned around to see perhaps his least favourite man in court.

"Your Majesty," said Lord Robert Dudley, sinking into a deep bow in front of Elizabeth. "Sir Kirkland." He acknowledged Arthur with a nod in his direction, then held his hand out to Elizabeth. "Would you do me the honour of this dance?"

"Of course," she laughed, placing her hand in his. And, with one last smile back at Arthur, allowed herself to be led back out onto the floor.

He watched her go, trying valiantly to convince himself that he felt perfectly neutral about this situation. Elizabeth loved him, of that he was sure, and Dudley was nothing but a friend. A good friend, certainly a hopeful friend, but just a friend. She could not well have refused him a dance without being rude.

Even so, he wished he would not hold her quite so closely as they stepped to the music.

Arthur blinked, dragged himself out of his thoughts. Either he could stand awkwardly at the side of the room and stare at Elizabeth until Dudley finished with her or he could find his own partner and perhaps salvage some enjoyment from these next few songs. The thought of dancing with another court lady far from thrilled him, but it was not quite as repulsive as watching the two of them with nothing to distract him. Making up his mind, he spotted two ladies without partners on the other side of the room and began to make his way over.

He was less than ten feet away when the sound of their conversation reached him.

"Lord Dudley would make a perfect Prince Consort, don't you think?"

Arthur froze, spun on his heel to walk away, changed his mind and turned back, then tried to lean against the wall and look nonchalant. All thoughts of getting any nearer to them than he was now disappeared instantly from his mind.

"Oh, yes," sighed the other. "It's such a pity he's already married."

"Not for long. Lady Dudley doesn't have long to live, you know. It's only a matter of time until she dies and the Queen snatches him up."

"But not straight away! She can't, can she?"

"I don't know, they just look so perfect together..."

Arthur wondered what Elizabeth saw in these pointless gatherings of airheaded, shallow gossips. He himself certainly took no enjoyment whatsoever from them and had no further desire to be in the same room as her and Dudley as they spun slowly in the middle of the floor. He turned and strode to the door, not bothering to explain himself as he pushed past the servants and headed back across the hall, his footsteps echoing more loudly than usual on the stone floors.

Robert Dudley. For the first and only time, Arthur found himself nostalgic for Mary and her pyromania. The cold truth was that, although he was certain that Elizabeth loved him far more, Dudley would make an undoubtedly good husband. And since when had marriage been dictated only by love?

Arthur was in bed hours before the rest of court, but it was only hours after they had all stumbled back to their chambers that his furious thoughts and worries gave way to dreams rather fatal to Lord Robert Dudley.


	9. Author's Note

Okay, first off, I'm really sorry. I was hoping I could get this finished but right now that doesn't seem particularly feasible. It will happen. I promise. But right now, it's not possible.

I'm going on exchange to France for ten months starting tomorrow. I'm absolutely thrilled and excited (not to mention terrified), but I'm also determined to learn as much French as possible in the time I have. So I've sworn off the English language. For anything other than contacting family and friends, I'm living life in French. And that includes writing. That's going to be a massive challenge in itself for me - for as long as I can remember writing has been my life. It's my passion. It's just what I do. You guys are writers too, right? You understand how I really don't want to have to abandon it, even if only for a few months. But I don't have a choice, and I'm sorry.

So basically, this story will get finished. I swear. When I get back I'll be so fizzing with unwritten words I'll probably bash it all out in about five minutes. But please don't hold your breath. I'd hate to come back to a pile of asphyxiated subscribers.

I don't really know what else to say. Wish me luck! Considering my level of French right now, I'll need it.


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